


too far along in our crime

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Murder, Necrophilia, Parent/Child Incest, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "It's a natural physiological response," he said softly."Nothing about this is natural," Malcolm spat.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 10
Kudos: 78
Collections: Anonymous





	too far along in our crime

**Author's Note:**

> this pairing ruined my life... read the tags y'all, it's pretty bad. malcolm is a necrophiliac and also freud's wet dream

It makes sense that Malcolm would go for a knife. It doesn't require as steady a hand as the scalpel, but it allows the killer to get up close and personal. Malcolm would be able to feel his victim's life essence trickling over his hands. Martin realized, whether or not his son did, that that was important to him. Being as close to death as he could.

The knife was also a nod to the man who made him; in all the ways possible. Their modus operandi wouldn't be so different. They'd live through it together.

It was a shame that Malcolm hadn't been able to pick out his first. He could have chosen anyone he wanted; stammered his way into charming them onto his blade. A one-of-a-kind beauty. Revenge on one who'd hurt him.

Then again, there was only one person Malcolm had ever wanted to enact revenge on, even if he didn't recognise it himself. He'd seen the way his son's smile went brittle, the way his eyes took on a feverish brightness, when they skirted over the possibility of Martin's death.

Malcolm always had that path available to him, he only needed to take it. Circumstance meant he'd never earned the status of protégé, but that didn't mean Malcolm's killer instinct wasn't laying dormant in his very DNA.

This was all Martin had ever wanted, but he had to reign himself in. The knife clattered to the floor and Malcolm stood there, silent and shaking.

He appeared as a singular frame of animation, suspended in time, until his gaze found Martin's, and he suddenly realized he couldn't breathe. Martin was there in a moment, helping his son to the floor, recognizing the signs of a monumentally intense panic attack.

It was important that Malcolm regained control of his breathing.

"Breathe with me, son. That's it. Remember that this was necessary, you did what you had to."

Malcolm gasped for air, hands curled like claws in his father's shirt.

"There. You're all right. Deep breaths. Inhale... and exhale."

After nerve-wracking moments, Malcolm could breathe again, but desperate and sawing, as though he was relearning this basic human instinct. Imagining death, talking of it, was nothing compared to the real deed. Witnessing a final heartbeat, you became an entirely different person, changed forever. It broke some; and made others.

"Dad," Malcolm croaked helplessly. "I can't live like this." He sounded accusing, as though all of this was Martin's fault. Ah, but wasn't _everything_ Martin's fault?

"You did what you had to do," Martin repeated. His hands moved over his son's shoulders, firm and reassuring.

"N-no." Malcolm drew in a ragged breath. He tilted his head to the sky, eyes shining with tears as he made his confession. "I'm sick. My brain is wired incorrectly. And I can't live with myself."

With an astounding speed, Martin's mind reached a conclusion that made him light-headed with glee. And something else. It was unfamiliar compared to the golden trifecta of emotions he was used to: seething anger, roiling jealousy, and dizzying self-satisfaction, but he quickly identified the overwhelming feeling as love. Pure love for his boy, who was rocking back and forth on a bloodsoaked surface, pupils dilated, pulse racing, willing away his erection brought about by his first kill.

"Oh, Malcolm," he whispered. The unfiltered adoration honeying his tone led Malcolm's gaze to snap up to his, eyes narrowing with unconcealed disgust.

Now that hurt. It always did, even if sometimes it hurt in the good way.

"It's a natural physiological response," he said softly.

"Nothing about this is natural," Malcolm spat. It was utterly fascinating to watch him falling apart, confronting the reality Martin had always known: like father, like son; but he didn't want Malcolm to think there was any shame in it. _You got your mother's conscience, and your father's sexual sadism._ Wow. It was better than he ever could have hoped for.

"You never have to do this again," Martin reasoned. He brushed a stray hair from his son's forehead. "You've thought about it since forever. And now's your chance to live that fantasy, here and now, with the one person you can trust."

Martin drank in the sight. His son's skin was flushed, his hair falling messily into his eyes. His clothes were stained with blood, and his cock strained visibly at the fabric of his pants.

Martin had only lingered idly on those trains of thought. To him, there were no boundaries on what his mind could explore. There was no such thing as thought crime. Still, only now had the idea of _taking care_ of his son become so appealing. Another way to bind them. Another way to show Malcolm there was no one else who could give him what he needed.

"You can go back to your world," Martin said. "You can put people like me behind bars, instead of accepting you're one of us. But what would they think if they found out?"

Malcolm's bottom lip trembled. Oh, he and Jessica's genes had combined nicely to produce something so pretty.

"What would Gil think?" Martin faux-gasped. "Will your surrogate father start giving you time alone with the cadavers? Clear the room, Bright's got to-"

"Shut _up."_

Malcolm swallowed down his revulsion and self-hatred. Martin mused on the idea of chasing it down his throat with his tongue.

"Just make it stop," his son begged, bowing his head.

"My dear boy. Anything you ask."

Considerately, Martin shifted so his boy had full view of the broken, bloodied corpse. His fingers made quick work of his son's zip, and closed around the heat of his cock.

Malcolm shuddered and dropped his head onto his father's shoulder, arms circling round his waist. Martin reveled in the sensation of breaking down his son's carefully constructed walls in his very own hands.

"I do this," Martin pointed out, "because I love you."

Was it the killing itself that drove Malcolm so wild? Was it the sight of the body, limp and free to use as he pleased, or the heady sensation of power that came with taking a life?

They would have to compare notes. If he could convince Malcolm life was still worth living after partaking in this particular vice, they'd have something new to bond over.

Malcolm let out a noise akin to a sob as his hips involuntarily bucked closer to his father's touch.

"That's it, my boy. You're doing so well." And he was. Cycling through dissociation and painful lucidity, Malcolm was letting go of the iron restraint which governed his lawful life, with the hero complex that belied his intrinsic shame and guilt over his reprehensible inclinations.

He would love to drag this out, savor a moment so drastically and tragically unlikely to repeat itself, but he was generous. He knew his son needed relief. Years of pent-up frustration and desire had led to this moment. Teasing was cruel, and his son was tortured enough.

"Come for Dad, sweetheart," Martin whispered into the crook of his son's shoulder, one hand coming up to twist in the hair at the nape of his neck, the thumb of the other teasing over the head of his cock.

"Keep talking," Malcolm rasped, giving in at last. His tone was flat. "It will help."  
  
  



End file.
